


I've seen the paths that your eyes wander down, I want to come too

by sweetxtangerine



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetxtangerine/pseuds/sweetxtangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder owns a coffee shop, Scully frequents said coffee shop.</p><p>"The air is clear and crisp and the colours of autumn are present in the falling leaves. The days, getting progressively shorter, meant the sun had only just begun to break the sky when Scully smacks at the door of The Coffee Parlour and recoils when the door does not open. It takes a moment for her to notice ‘pull’ written in big black letters on the handle. She closes her eyes and breathes in and then out, slowly, nods to herself, tries to regain a little dignity, and enters the cafe. To be fair, though, it is a Monday."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've seen the paths that your eyes wander down, I want to come too

**Author's Note:**

> I don't expect this to be more than two or maybe three chapters, but I'm an absolute sucker for coffee shop AUs and the idea struck me.

The air is clear and crisp and the colours of autumn are present in the falling leaves. The days, getting progressively shorter, meant the sun had only just begun to break the sky when Scully smacks at the door of The Coffee Parlour and recoils when the door does not open. It takes a moment for her to notice ‘pull’ written in big black letters on the handle. She closes her eyes and breathes in and then out, slowly, nods to herself, tries to regain a little dignity, and enters the cafe. To be fair, though, it is a Monday. 

The man at the counter sees her, watches her stride in, all fire and freckles and a little bit of fluster. She’s anxious, he notes, but has a fierceness about her. She stands to the back of the queue and waits, toes tapping in involuntary impatience.

Mulder realises he’s been staring when the man at the head of the queue coughs loudly. He snaps back to it, taking orders, making coffees, retrieving pastries and bagels, and then she’s there in front of him. 

There’s something about him she’s struck with. Tall, much taller than her, (though that wasn’t all that hard to be), and slim, with wonderfully fluffy hair and glasses that caught the light. There’s a cheekiness to his smile, and he has a day or two’s stubble. Unfairly attractive, with an air of genuine honesty.

She knows she’s running late and she’s practically vibrating. She orders a macchiato and a croissant to go, and when he tells her, “That’ll be five forty-six, please!”, she hands him five crumpled ones and manages to miss his outstretched hand and scatters her coins on the counter. He gathers up the pennies and dimes.

She apologises and he smiles, and his gaze lingers a moment too long, but hers lingers too and for that single second time stands still. Then she glances behind him and notices the clock on the wall and that frozen moment becomes a thing of the past as she remembers her hurry. She thanks him, in haste, and grabs her coffee and croissant and dashes out the door.

He thinks of her when his shift ends and he walks back to his apartment, the autumn leaves the colour of her hair.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday rolls around and Mulder half wonders if the woman with the fiery hair would be back again. He isn’t disappointed. She’s back early, just a few minutes after the shop opens and before the rush this time. The sun isn’t quite out yet, and the sky is illuminated with the glow of an autumn sunrise. She orders a macchiato, dine in. 

“Croissant, too?” He asks, and she looks surprised.

“I didn’t expect you’d remember,” she says, and gives him a thoughtful look before nodding. He turns to the espresso machine.

“You're memorable. Might be the hair,” he calls to her as he pulls the shot, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“I didn’t give it,” she smiles back, “I’m Dana.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dana,” he says, back still turned, pouring the steamed milk. He spins around and places the cup on a saucer. “I’m Mulder.”

“Mulder?” She raises an eyebrow, and it’s playful, teasing even, “That’s a name?”

“Well, technically speaking, my name is Fox Mulder,” he explains, “But I’m not much a fan of Fox. I make even my parents call me Mulder.”

“I see,” she laughs, “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mulder.”

She pays, and maybe she’s just being extra careful not to drop her change this time, but her fingers linger on Mulder’s for just a moment longer than necessary, and takes the coffee and croissant and sits down by the front window. There’s an intensity that she exudes, a newness and an eagerness that sparks light into her eyes, present in the way she sits, moves, smiles. He hopes she stays that way, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and that life doesn’t take that spark away.

The morning rush starts to build and he falls into his routine. Take the orders, make the coffees, work the register. He calls back to Byers in the kitchen if he needs any help at the counter. One customer, sat in the corner, gestures to his friend a little too wildly and smashes his mug, the queue gets longer and a little more restless, and by the time the rush dies down, the ceramic shards are cleared, and Byers is able to return to the art of pastry making, the redhead by the window is gone. There's nothing but some flakes of the croissant on her plate and a lipstick smudge on the rim of her cup left behind. 

As Mulder walks home he breathes deep the autumn breeze. The leaves are practically glowing fire in the midday sun. This, he decides, is his favourite season. 

* * *

 

 

Mulder reconsiders his newfound love for the autumn when the heavens decide to open on Wednesday morning. It’s an absolute downpour, an absolute nightmare, and he can’t find his umbrella. He has no choice, he realises; he needs to get the pastries baking and the coffee brewing, or an hour from now he'd have to face a line of rushed customers deprived of caffeine. He grabs his jacket and holds it over his head and makes a run for it. It’s only a five minute walk to the shop, but a five minute walk in sunshine, he notes as he steps in a puddle and one leg of his jeans gets soaked to the knee, is significantly faster than a five minute walk in a deluge. 

He may as well have not taken a jacket at all, he thinks, as gets to the door. The rain was heavy enough, the wind strong enough, that he was almost soaked through, anyway. He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door and then locks it again behind him. Lights on, heating on, equipment on. He's more thankful than he ought to be that his employees do their job, that the dough for the croissants is laminated and ready to go, that the dough for the bagels is proofed. All he needs to do is shape them and bake them.

It's a routine, and though routine is not something he has always favoured, he likes this one. His own little business where he can make and serve some damn good coffee. Share the love, a little.

The Coffee Parlour is cozy, the stone walls a cool beige, the fairy lights strung up along the edges of the room adding a twinkle to the atmosphere, and the smell of hot, fresh pastries fills the air. He makes himself a macchiato and sips slowly, savouring the smooth, rich flavours. Not half bad, he thinks to himself.

Dana comes by again, early again, and she’s in a bit of a huff because her shoes are soaked, but she smiles a real smile and her hand lingers on Mulder’s again for just a moment too long as she passes him her cash, and he wonders if she can feel the electricity that he feels when they’re this close. She takes her coffee to go again today and as she leaves the counter he calls back to her, “Stay dry,” and she turns around, hair flipping around her face, and she grins. 

Maybe the rain isn’t so bad, Mulder thinks, as he watches the beautiful dark greys and blues move heavily through the sky, rays of light occasionally breaking through heavens in golden beams.

 

* * *

 

 

By Thursday morning the rain has cleared, and Mulder's shoes have dried. He heads to the shop early and goes through his usual routine. Lights on, heating on, equipment on, baked goods in the oven.

It's ten to seven and Byers knocks on the window. Mulder unlocks the door, and turns on the 'open' sign. 

"Morning, Mulder," Byers says, shirt and tie pressed nicely, a skip in his step. He heads to the kitchen and comes back with his apron on. 

"I know I've said this before, but you know you don't have to dress up for work, Byers," Mulder says, always enjoying the chance to dig at his friend.

"I know, Mulder," he smiles, "And you know I just like dressing like this. 

"Just don't get flour on your tie," Mulder laughs, heading to the kitchen to put on his own apron, "Good date with Suzanne?"

Byers grins. "I'm in love!" 

Mulder gawks a little, "You didn't tell her that, though, right?" 

Byers laughs, "I may be head over heels, but I know better than to profess my love to a girl on the second date."

"Wise choice," Mulder smiles, "Good for you. When do I get to meet her?"

Byers is about to respond, but the bell on the door rings announcing the arrival of customers and cuts their conversation short. He puts on his apron and he's back to the routine. One latte, another, an americano, three plain coffees (black), several croissants and bagels and danishes here and there, the clock ticks and the hours pass. 

He keeps his eyes out for a suit, heels, and red hair, but he's fairly certain that she's not something he could just miss. The morning rush comes and goes and it hits nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven, and noon. Maybe she was just in town for a couple of days, he thinks, a little dejected. And then he shakes himself. A girl he'd seen thrice, not had anything that could even constitute as a proper conversation, and yet he was a little infatuated. He swallows his thoughts.

It's one o'clock and the sun is shining and he's thankful for the wide windows that allow him to connect a little with the city. He's on his lunch break with a coffee in one hand and a zine in the other and he doesn't even turn around when the door opens and the bell rings again. He's pretty interested in this zine, one that Byers and his friends put together, called The Lone Gunman, and just as he's reading an account of someone who claims to have witnessed Elvis's ghost he's interrupted.

"Is this seat taken?" 

He looks up, and a grin spreads across his face. "Dana," He says.

"Is that a yes?" she asks, smiling back.

"Yes," he flusters, "I mean no! The seat isn't taken."

"Great," She says, and sits down with her coffee and croissant. "I was running late this morning and so I didn't have a chance to get my caffeine fix."

He smiles. "Well, you've come to the right place! Chemical stimulants abound, here."

She laughs and then they're silent for a moment, but it's a comfortable silence. It doesn't feel awkward.

"So," She says, as she gestures towards him, "UFOs, huh?"

"Hmm?" He asks, and then looks back at the zine that's still in his hands and back to her, "Oh, yeah, I guess I kinda love this sort of thing--aliens, conspiracy theories, crop circles..." 

"Really?" Her eyes are light and bright and beautiful, and a little amused.

"Yeah," he admits, "I had an... experience of sorts when I was younger. Not a good one, but it opened my mind to a world of extreme possibilities."

"What sort of experience?" she asks, "If you don't mind me asking?"

He chooses his words carefully. "One that involves entities who I truly believe to be extraterrestrial."

She smiles at him funnily, and there's a moment's pause before he asks, "So, what is it that you do, Dana?"

"I'm a doctor" She says, taking a gulp of her coffee, "Just finished my residency, actually!"

"New job then?" He asks.

"Yes, actually," she admits, "Monday was my first day."

"Congratulations, Dana! Are you new to the area then?"

She nods. "I'm working in DC, and just moved to Alexandria last weekend."

"That's great!" He smiles, "Well if ever you need a guide, or a friend, or want to catch a drink, you know where I am."

He cringes internally. Was it too much?

She smiles back at him, though, "I'll keep that in mind, Mulder."

She eats her croissant and they're silent again, and he flicks through the pages to an article about Bigfoot. 

Suddenly, she turns to the clock and double takes, "Sorry, I've got to go, I'm late-" she calls out, with a mouthful of croissant. She grabs her jacket and bag and dashes out of the cafe.

Mulder adds sugar cubes to his coffee, something he doesn't normally do, but feels the need for sweetness. He adds more than enough, and stirs. He spends the rest of his break marvelling at how the dust particles suspended in the sunbeams look almost luminescent.

 

* * *

  

By Friday he's thankful for the impending weekend. Though it's been good, the week's been long and he could use a little unwinding. 

His walk to work is crisp and lovely. He wears a scarf and gloves and can see his breath ahead of him. There's a fog hanging close to the ground that has yet to be burnt off by the day. Mulder can see silk-spun gossamer in the trees, glistening like diamonds as the sun rises.

Work goes by smoothly. Dana comes in just before the morning rush. As he sees her come in he starts on her drink and gets out her pastry.  

“Here or to go?” He asks with a grin. 

“A little bit presumptuous, don’t you think, Mulder?” She grins back, “Am I really that predictable?”

He nods, “You’ve quickly become one of my favourite regulars, Dana.”

“For here, please,” she smiles. He hands her the cup and plate. He’d guessed correctly. “Enjoy.”

She sits back at her spot by the window. Again, he doesn’t see her go, but this time, when he clears her dishes, there’s a lipstick stain on the serviette, too.

He goes home early, and plans for a night in, but the Gunmen have other plans. They want a night out, and he could stand to let loose a little so he meets them at a bar in Washington. It’s a little on the shabby side, a little sleazier than he really likes, but they drink and laugh and discuss conspiracies and unexplained phenomenon, and they tease Byers a little about the famous Caroline whom he's looking forward to a third date with over the weekend.

Frohike goes to get them another round, but then shit hits the fan. Frohike, a little drunk and a little belligerent manages to get in the middle of an argument-cum-fistfight, and Mulder gets in the middle of them trying to break it up. Soon, there are at least four angry, drunk men in very close proximity with Mulder stuck in the middle. A punch is thrown, he happens to be right in the way of it's trajectory. He doesn't see it coming. He certainly feels it though.

Immediately, at the collision of fist-to-mouth he feels a pain in his lip where he knows his teeth have sunk deep into flesh. He tastes the blood, and realises the impact has knocked him off balance. The group of belligerents has started to pull apart a little, so when he falls backwards, there's nothing to stop him from smashing his head on the edge of a table. A searing, sticky, white-hot pain washes over him and his vision blurs something rotten. He pulls himself forward though, and tries to throw his own punch, but gets another in the face. Someone wearing a ring, this time, he realises, as he feels the sting of a gash opening on his cheek, feels warmth dripping down his chin.

He hears a, “Mulder, we need to get you out,” from maybe Byers or Langley, and tries to steady himself but slips to the ground.

Then he feels two strong hands on his shoulders lifting him and carrying him aside effortlessly, and over the roar of the bar he hears someone ask if they should call for an ambulance.

“Are you OK?” the voice of the man whose hands are still on his shoulders echoes from above him.

He can still feel blood dripping down his face. Maybe the back of his neck, too. “I’m sleepy,” Mulder mumbles.

“I think he’s concussed,” the voice says to the side of him and then back towards him, “Paramedics are on their way. You’re gonna need some medical attention, OK?"

Mulder nods languidly.

He feels himself being picked up again, carried. Feels the great outdoors, the fresh, cold autumn air on his face and it’s cool, refreshing, crisp. He hears sirens and then feels himself be lifted onto a stretcher, and the last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep, against his better judgement, is the woman he's known for less than a week made of fire and freckles. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, Valentine, this is for you.
> 
> Title taken from the song "Falling In Love In A Coffee Shop" by Landon Pigg.


End file.
